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the tab on the Coors, Ernie said, "Ned makes the best darned cheeseburgers I've ever eaten."
        Sandy smiled shyly. "It's a blessing having a man who cooks." Her voice was soft, meek. "Especially in my case 'cause I'm no good at it." :'Oh, I'll bet you're a fine cook, too," Ernie said.
        'No, no, not me, not even a little bit. Never was, never will be."
        He looked at her bare, goose-pimpled arms, exposed by her short-sleeved uniform. "You shouldn't come out on a night like this without a sweater. You'll catch your death."
        "Not me," she said. "I… I got used to the cold a long time ago."
        That seemed an odd thing to say, and the tone of voice in which she said it was even odder. But before Ernie could think of a way to draw her out and discover her meaning, she headed toward the door.
        "See you later, Ernie."
        "Uh… much business?"
        "Some. And the truckers'll be pulling in for supper soon."
        She paused with the door open. "You sure keep it bright in here."
        A bite of cheeseburger stuck in his throat when she opened the door. She was exposing him to the dangers of the darkness.
        Cold air swept in.
        "You could get a tan in here," she said.
        " I… I like it bright. People come into a motel office that's dimly lit… well, the impression is it's dirty."
        "Oh! I would've never thought of that. Guess that's why you're the boss. I was in charge, I'd never think of little things like that. I'm no good at details. Gotta scoot."
        He held his breath while the door was open, sighed with relief when she pulled it shut behind her. He watched her scurry past the windows and out of sight. He could not remember ever hearing Sandy admit to a virtue. Likewise, she never hesitated to point out her faults and shortcomings, both real and imagined. The kid was sweet, but she was sometimes dreary company. Tonight, of course, even dreary company was welcome. He was sorry to see her go.
        At the counter, eating while standing up, Ernie concentrated intently on his food, not once lifting his eyes from it until he was done, using it to take his mind off the irrational fear that made his scalp prickle and kept the cold sweat trickling down from his armpits.
        By six-fifty, eight of the motel's twenty rooms were occupied. Because it was the second night of a four-day holiday weekend, with more than the usual number of travelers, he would rent out at least another eight units if he stayed open until nine o'clock.
        He could not do it. He was a Marine - retired, but still a Marine - to whom the words "duty" and "courage" were sacred, and he had never failed to do his duty, not even in Vietnam, not even with bullets flying and bombs bursting and people dying on all sides, but he was incapable of the simple task of manning the motel desk until nine o'clock. There were no drapes at the big office windows, no blind over the glass door, no way to escape the sight of darkness. Each time the door opened, he was sick with dread because no barrier lay between him and the night.
        He looked at his big strong hands. They were trembling. His sour stomach churned. He was so jumpy he could not keep still. He paced the small work area. He fiddled with this and that.
        Finally, at a quarter past seven, surrendering to his irrational anxiety, he used a switch under the counter to turn on the NO VACANCY sign outside, and he locked the front door. He clicked off the lamps, one at a time, edging away from the shadows that rushed in where light had ruled, and he quickly retreated to the rear of the room. Steps led up to the owner's apartment on the second floor. He intended to climb them at an ordinary pace, telling himself that it was silly and stupid to be afraid, telling himself that nothing was coming after him from the dark corners of the office behind, nothing - such a ridiculous thought - nothing, absolutely nothing. But